


Lift

by greenapricot



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode s04e01: Game, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 17:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: Morse pulls up in front of the Thursday's house just as Mrs Thursday is coming down the path. She spots him when she gets to the pavement and hurries across the road, dodging puddles.





	Lift

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the day after after Game. Written before Canticle, so not necessarily compliant with the rest of the series.
> 
> I wrote this right after Game aired in the UK. It then got lost in my WIP folder for months and when I was poking around in there the other day I discovered that it was a complete fic. So, here it is.

Morse pulls up in front of the Thursday's house just as Mrs Thursday is coming down the path. She spots him when she gets to the pavement and hurries across the road, dodging puddles. Her umbrella clacks against the roof of the Jag as she leans down to the window.

“Fred won't need picking up for another hour,” she says.

“I know,” Morse replies. “I thought, with the rain. Maybe you'd like a lift again?” It's been raining steadily since he woke up an hour ago and shows no sign of letting up.

“Oh,” she says placing her hand on her chest as if the offer was that unexpected. “All right.” He leans over and opens the door for her as she comes around the car.

“You needn't, you know,” Mrs Thursday says once she’s stowed her dripping umbrella in the back and is settled in her seat. “Just because you did the once.”

“I was up anyway,” Morse says as he pulls away from the kerb, but regrets it almost immediately when a look of concern crosses her face. He thought a ride might make things easier for her. Her worrying about him was not part of the plan. “I've always been an early riser,” he adds, which is not exactly false.

She doesn't respond to that beyond a hum and a nod. He suspects she knows it's not true and doesn't know how to respond. Which is fine, except for the fact that he seems to have exhausted all the small talk he had in him the previous day. This was a bad idea. He doesn't really know her, does he? She's his governor’s wife, maker of reliable sandwiches, doter on of children who are no longer there. Their only common ground is Thursday. And Joan. Minefields both. He should have stayed in bed contemplating the pattern of his wallpaper like he has done every other morning he's found himself awake long before it was useful.

The silence has stretched so long now he feels stuck, the swoosh clack of the wipers loud in the absence of words. He keeps both hands on the wheel and glances in Mrs Thursday’s direction. The look on her face is still one of slight concern, though that's probably been the case since Joan left.

“It's okay,” she says. “If we don't talk. The company is nice.”

He suppresses a laugh at that, it would have been hollow and bitter and do nothing to alleviate the awkwardness. She is being kind to him. He let Joan go, she shouldn't have to be kind to him. He should be kind to her, but he's not sure he's got the knack for that.

“I'm sorry I didn't— I did try to get her to stay.”

“It's not your fault,” she says. “It's not anyone's fault I don't think.” She sighs. “Joan has always known her own mind, as much as she's my baby she's a grown woman. Not that I don't wonder almost every minute of every day if she's okay.” She pauses and Morse glances at her. “Thank you for trying.”

“I'm sorry it wasn't enough.”

“This has got you all torn up as well, doesn't it? You needn't worry about us, dear. We'll get through it. There are always rough patches.”

Morse nods. She seems so calm, so together, and he wonders how she does it if she really is worried about Joan every minute. He wants to ask her how she manages to not let it show, but he finds his voice has deserted him, throat thick with unsaid things, and Mrs Thursday is not the person to say them to. The person to say them to is gone and he couldn't even make himself say them when he had the chance. This really was a very bad idea.

They are nearing the office block where he left her off yesterday. One more light and two more stop signs to go.

“Morse,” Mrs Thursday says, as they wait for the light to change. He turns toward her against his best judgement, unable to school his features into anything resembling what a bagman ought to be showing to his boss’s wife. “You love her,” she says. It's not a question.

All he can do is nod and pull back into traffic as the light changes.

“She's an easy person to love,” Mrs Thursday says.

Morse has no reply to that won't put the look of concern back on her face. But the silence this time is more comfortable as he pulls up in front of the building.

“Why don't you come to dinner tonight?” Mrs Thursday asks, hand on the door handle as she’s about to get out.

“I'm not sure that would be a good idea.” It would be an absolutely terrible idea. Worse than this idea.

“I'm still cooking for three, can't seem to break the habit. I hate to see food go to waste.”

“Mrs Thursday—”

“Win, please.”

“Win, I—” He's about to refuse again but what else has he got? Sitting in his poky flat with his records and his whisky. Beans on toast for tea again. She's watching him intently like she knows exactly what he'd be going home to, like his refusal would be taking something else away from her. “Okay,” he says.

“Good,” she replies and gives him a small smile before opening the door and continuing on with her day.

_____


End file.
